Sunday Poetry: Jan-Douglas Tuckley

We have promises to keep they say,And land mines are other kid's business--Bound in the intimacy of deceit and newsprintWhose trees they cannot climb for lack of this limb or that.

Turning spent shell casings in lamps is an art formNot taught in grade school alongside watercolors,The table at which He served tax collectors was notAn ammo crate spent on killing any holy spirit of my relations.

I always volunteered to clean the chalkboard erasersBecause chalk smelled better than burning flesh in my hamlet.It is more blessed to empty pencil sharpeners scornfullyThan to empty gun magazines with great love and devotion.